Neal Stephenson (author here) manages to do something in this book that I’d aspire to if I could get my shit together enough to write a book: he blends what could be totally disparate interests into this fascinating whole. Until this book, I had no idea what Van Eck Phreaking was, or how a computer actually translated code, pixel by pixel, into the image on screen. Somehow those tidbits fit into a novel on WWII code breaking and modern day data haven development. And, as I said, it’s hysterical.

My brain has a way of latching onto a whole variety of subjects — a trait I usually think of as preventing me from enough focus to really charge into any one area. Whether it’s writing, cooking, construction, communications infrastructure, evolving algorithm data analysis, or the real (and thus far still imaginary) tech expansion of localism, I get totally sucked into the mechanics and possibilities. And then I go back to my day job(s).

But some day, I think I won’t. When Jason is done with school (or maybe before?), I will go off on my own sort of mental dig to see if a driving idea — maybe even one that loops through the topics that seize my brain — is there under all of this clutter. After I finish that book.

Like so many parents, I often sit back and think with alarm about how fast my kids are growing up. Amelia is in kindergarten; Henry will turn 4 in March; and James just started preschool. At the same time — especially in sleep-deprived moments — I have to admit that Mother Nature seems to have gotten the speed of maturation just right. Because I will run out of capacity for dealing with sleeplessness right around the time they become less cute and more self-sufficient.

And that, dear reader(s?), is how I get a post up on this %$#^$^ blog. Short, shallow, and with a large, large gulp of coffee.

I read a lot written by stepmothers of teenagers, who make a pretty convincing case for having the toughest job in the world. But I submit that younger kids may be harder — at least for the kind of stepmom prone to self-criticism and reflection.

With a teenager, there is a limited extent to which you can and should absolve the stepchild of responsibility. Yes, they’ve been through a lot. Yes, they have divided sympathies. But they are old enough to choose their behavior, and when they screw up (as we all do) I think it’s fair to be pissed off. You deal with it lovingly, but the feeling is valid.

But little kids are a very different story. They do not understand cause and effect; they have little to no affect regulation; and they’re at the stages in which that is completely developmentally appropriate. Your annoyance, as a stepparent, if something goes hideously wrong can’t morally be directed at a little kid. It has to go to the situation, some other factor, or yourself.

Why is this different from parenting? Well, as a parent as well to a no-cause-and-effect, little affect regulation kid myself, I’m confident that the difference is the sympathy established by the deep parental bond. That may be learned; it may be genetic and/or hormonal; but it’s there in experience — an unconscious tolerance that you don’t even notice until you see that it’s lacking in other circumstances. And once you notice that, it’s even harder to direct the emotions brought up by stepkids’ misbehavior. You can’t so much as raise your voice without thinking, “Is this fair? Would I do this with him? Do I expect too much? God, why won’t they just STOP?”

I say this, obviously, coming off of a very bad day yesterday. Jason has TONS of homework this weekend, and we’re off our usual schedule, so I took everyone to the Montshire and then for ice cream. And in the space of 5 hours, I was screamed at, punched in the face, and kicked, all more than once. All three kids were involved. And I spent the rest of the afternoon sobbing on the couch, wishing I could either find peace with it all or hop on a plane. I want our kids to have a happy, affectionate, peaceful childhood, but my attachment to that ideal right now only brings me disappointment and frustration.

They are going through stages that can’t be avoided, and in circumstances they didn’t pick. And I am often sure that I am just not up to the task of understanding their world and my place in it.

I used to tell Jason all the time (and it seems to have stuck) that the most important thing he could do for his kids — other than being a constant and involved presence — would be to live a happy life, so they could see the example of a fulfilled and interested adult, someone happy enough to share his interests and value theirs. He is turning into that person, and I am not.

Circumstantially, it’s just the way it is — I work constantly to try to keep us above water — but I know how deeply I am affected by my inability to pursue anything, other than this blog I guess, for myself. I can’t choose hobbies over hours worked to pay tuition; I can’t buy something small and pretty when the kids need clothes for school. I make those judgments internally — they’re not imposed by anyone — but there are times (while being kicked and screamed at, for example) when it just seems, if not unfair, at least untenable. I wonder if, by the time they’re older and life is somehow different, there will be much left of my internal self, or if the hopes I seem to be clinging to by threads will have been at best found silly and at worst forgotten.

No momentous statement, really, but it got me thinking, particularly as I now regularly rage against my own sense of obsolescence: how stupid is the drive to be remembered? And how universal?

It seems to me that an incredible amount of bad writing, at least, has been perpetrated in the name of being remembered. Biographies that read like tabloid interviews; ambitious fiction that fell on the author’s rather embarrassing ignorance of his own lack of depth… Let’s not even mention politics, where megalomaniacs go to fit in and accept donations. If we’re all so desperate to be remembered, why is it so easy to produce something that’s so eminently forgettable?

That question, I think, is the paralyzing fear that keeps me from writing — I mean really writing; writing stories of idiotic devotion, obsessive wrong-headedness, and the thin little sliver of difference between enlightenment and incredible destruction. I think all day about these abstract ideas that seem to capture my nature (for good or ill), but develop mental palsy at the prospect of actually sitting down to make a plot out of them. Is it more terrifying to be forgotten and inconsequential? Or to be remembered for being an idiot?

Would the ideas that obsess me resonate with any other thinking person? Could I build believable situations and characters to carry them forward? Or would any potential result of my writing reference Macbeth in the worst kind of way, being full of sound and fury, but signifying nothing? Shit, even Shakespeare’s a critic.

It bears noting, I think that my favorite writer wrote a book that I revere; I’ve read it many times, and the same cheap paperback copy sits on my shelf, dog-eared, annotated, and ready for another round. At the time of its release, the public hated it, no doubt bored to tears by the chapter on the proper categorization of whales, and the author ended up a mid-level customs house employee until his retirement and relatively obscure death. Based on that story, I have no idea whether one should hope to be like Herman Melville or not.

Many people must struggle with the same problems of laziness and futility. It just seems too hard sometimes to believe that incremental steps can actually add up to noticeable improvement. (Ex: I know meditating for an hour a day would make measurable differences in my stress levels and even neural connections.  But an HOUR?! Who has the time?) Meditation, exercise, talking to friends… Everything seems to fall by the wayside of good intentions when faced with the choice between deep personal work and, I don’t know, Battlestar Galactica and a vodka tonic.

The one area of my life that I apparently will not skimp on in any way is my cooking. I will pare grocery shopping down to ridiculous levels; I will stress about the cost of bell peppers. But — and this isn’t a conscious decision, but apparently a deeply held assumption and value — I will NOT spend less than a hour cooking dinner.

Why? God knows. I guess it’s the single space in which I can regularly be relaxed and creative, even if it only satisfies my own tastes. It’s mental alone time, away from the demands of work, and at best away from the screaming of kids. (I wish we cooked together sometimes, but food doesn’t interest Jason on the same terrain.) And I am fundamentally unwilling to eat crap. Actually, scratch the philosophizing. I think that’s the real reason.

Not to say that I won’t eat things that are awful for you. I cooked pancakes and bacon this morning, and I’m heating up oil for fried chicken tonight. But at least nearly everything we eat, I make from scratch. Nothing comes from a box or the freezer; nothing is full of mystery ingredients. Nothing comes pre-stamped with colorful images of Disney marketing. (Seriously, I saw boxes today at Walmart of individual rounds of raw cookie dough with cartoon characters on them. Disgusting.)

This probably makes me a really smug bitch on the food front, but there you have it. I have standards. But as you can see from my new masthead image, even Buddha had to eat — and I’d be surprised if he didn’t enjoy it.

The answer of course is that I used to get the same recharge from cooking, and still sometimes get a flicker of my former experience. In life Before Children, when pre-dinner was a time of quiet shifting into domesticity, the act of arranging ingredients, methodically chopping, stirring, and tasting was a real Zen and the Art of Cooking kind of thing for me. I would zone out (safely) while chopping, with complete awareness of my fingers and the knife and the food, able to chop faster and more accurately for my lack of characteristically tight control. Humming or singing along with something, gently sweeping the blade down and through — it’s no wonder that I was simply relaxed by the time dinner was ready.

I have yet to figure out how to resurrect those feelings in the midst of kid chaos. Perhaps when they’re a bit older, and I can stop yelling, “PUT THAT DOWN!” and “OH MY GOD, ARE YOU OKAY?!” Amelia is a major cook in the making — she helped me with omelets this morning, and stirred a bunch of jambalaya last night. And the boys may be, too. But right now, that formerly calm period of preparation is out of reach. Ommmmmm….

The other thing about cooking is that it’s the closest thing I can imagine to real alchemy. The combination of elements that are eh on their own, but when combined in certain ways become something extraordinary. Lemon cake comes to mind. Cherries and the right cheese. Well-made risotto. Or the bizarre mash of ingredients that make up the so-called “Brazilian burger” I had a few weeks ago. Sometimes it is delightfully impossible to deconstruct a flavor in its entirety — and I love that feeling of wonder, not knowing what the hell was combined to make something that tastes like that. It doesn’t happen all that often, but it’s some kind of magic.

And with that said, I’ll take my well-stocked stomach back into work mode, with my Buddhist prayer beads on my wrist, and my mind on my next meal.

I went to France twice not long after college — one quick trip just there, and another that included Italy on the itinerary. It’s frankly odd to remember those vacations now, from a time of my life that was soooo different. No kids. No house. I was in my early 20s with my first (horrible) job, and while the immediate future was unknown, the larger trajectory looked pretty optimistic. Not to knock where I am now, but it’s funny how things like that can reverse — I feel certain that I know what I’ll be doing next month, but a year from now looks rather mysterious.

Today, though, I’m positively drooling over the idea of being immersed again in the sights, smells, and tastes of somewhere different. Working at home and catering generally to the pretty standard American preferences of my family, I miss the sensory experiences of being in Europe — new sounds everywhere, new stories, and every meal or farmers’ market a chance to savor something unexpected. I miss the taste of mushrooms I’ve never seen before, spices that blend together to make something amazing, wine that tastes like a daily lesson in just slowing down.

I’m American to the core — as my work hours demonstrate rather painfully — but I firmly believe that more hedonistic cultures have something desperately important to teach us about the value and place of pleasure. Some day, I hope to bump homemade mac and cheese (however good) off the menu in favor of gnocchi, pot au feu, or even real Neapolitan pizza. Something experimental. Something different. I may never travel again as lightly as I did in my 20s, but it will be nice when my cooking can skip around the globe on my behalf.

I’ve been thinking a lot about writing instead of writing a lot about thinking. Mainly because writing is something I always plan to do “someday when there’s time,” like travel, smiling, and relaxation. Or “when I can afford it,” like never. Somehow, while I know the countless tales of poor writers who slogged through until they had a wealth-making masterpiece (or an editor who could turn it into such), I’ve never been able to build up the momentum, I guess the faith, to sit down and devote myself to it. Not when there’s a ton of [insert chore or work] to do.

But I’ll try here for a mini-dose, and then see if I come back for more. There are a lot of things right now that frighten me. The economy. The job market. Tuition payments. But most of all I’m scared these days by my own lack of direction — my inability to figure out where I fit into the patchwork of abilities and talents that makes up, well, everything that makes money. I don’t want to be casting around for much longer trying to figure out what exactly it is that I do. And I don’t want what I do to be a barely paid version of treading water.

Sometimes moving up here seems like the best idea I ever had. And sometimes it seems like the dumbest thing ever. I love this house and this area, and knowing that the kids can play outside safely, and tramp through the woods without even leaving our property. But central NH is just not an exciting hub of fast-paced professional life, and more and more, I miss that possibility — the new ideas and people around every corner. I left it just as I might have been making the leap from someone’s assistant to someone. And here I am, still taking notes and following leads — fully aware that the economic lifeboats are reserved for the unstuck, but unable to see how to invest in tomorrow’s hope while still paying today’s bills.

“Be where you are,” says Pema Chodron. Fine, but I’d like where I am to be a path that has more than old age and death at the end of it. Getting by isn’t enough anymore. And figuring out how to be poor and happy has officially run its course in this house.

And then I caved.  As Jason pointed out, the only real alternative was to eat sandwiches for dinner from the little store down the road, and the thought of lunch meat on my dinner plate brought my inner Martha Stewart (a different sort of femme fatale) back to the driver’s seat.  I may not have made the stock-based soup I originally planned, but the potato croquettes I whipped up as a side dish weren’t bad.